Nine of Wands (reversed) by Robert Beveridge

You pull another box
from the wall. Open it.
Its contents go somewhere,
be they rabbits, books,
pieces of anatomy
preserved in specimen
jars. There are shelves,
there are bins, cupboards
whose design is senseless
enough to be of alien
origin. But all hold things,
all sit in silent judgment,
await those items that fit
best. You pull another box
from the wall. Open it.

Robert Beveridge
Robert Beveridge makes noise ( and writes poetry in Akron, OH. Recent/upcoming appearances in The Nixes Mate Review, Violet Rising, and The Road Less Travelled, among others.

Ugly as Sin by Gale Acuff

Miss Hooker’s dead. She teaches me Sunday
School, or did until she died, even though
it was a dream, a bad dream, from last night
but I woke this morning still feeling death
and I’m not even dead yet but I wish
I was sometimes just so I wouldn’t be
afraid of it, I’d be one with it, its
good match, and then maybe I would beat it,
beat death to death so that there would be no
more of it. In Sunday School class last week

Miss Hooker said that Jesus already
defeated death but that still means I have
to die first. Death will kill me but not for
keeps because I’ll live eternally, my
soul anyway and she says that part counts
most, I can’t use my body in Heaven
anyway because oil and water don’t
mix and I guess my body’s the second
but then again I like fried chicken, that’s
oil, but I like water, too, but any

way you slice it I’m one or the other,
so if I believe in God and Jesus
and the Holy Ghost and say my prayers
and try not to sin, even though I will,
I’m cursed, Miss Hooker says, we all are, and
ask God to forgive me when I’ve strayed
then I’ll go to Heaven sure as shooting
and death will actually be my friend
because I can’t go anywhere, Heaven

or Hell, unless death kills me enough to
get me to one place or the other and it’s
the other I want, Heaven I mean, full
of angels and good folks from the Bible
and maybe my dog, maybe a trillion
dogs. Miss Hooker didn’t say so, I filled
in the blanks. This morning it’s Sunday School
again. I know Miss Hooker isn’t dead
but it sure seemed real in my sleep. Maybe

after class I’ll tell her how it was but
I don’t want to scare her, her red hair and
green eyes and freckles, Lord knows she’s been through
enough already. Up in Heaven ugly
won’t matter–I’m no prize myself but good
enough for God and death won’t pass us by,
nobody’s that ugly, only homely.
And I wouldn’t be death to save my life,
not if you gave me a million dollars.

I have had poetry published in Ascent, McNeese Review, Pennsylvania Literary Journal, Poem, Adirondack Review, Weber: The Contemporary West, Maryland Poetry Review, Florida Review, South Carolina Review, Carolina Quarterly, Arkansas Review, South Dakota Review, Orbis, and many other journals. I have authored three books of poetry: Buffalo Nickel (BrickHouse Press, 2004), The Weight of the World (BrickHouse, 2006), and The Story of My Lives (BrickHouse, 2008).

Whispers of Love by Anoucheka Gangabissoon

So, whispered Love,
Are you a pink flamingo?
One so proud of itself
One so in love with itself
One so full of itself
That you refuse to see me?

Why, whispered I,
How come you can see me not
How come you can see not that I am a shattered mirror
Held in place by life’s grace
That I refuse to acknowledge that I see you
Simply because
I wish to have you whisper sweet nothings to me
Sweet nothings which shall glue me back in shape
Sweet nothings for which I shall give me strength
Strength which shall be imbibed of magic
Ready to have it all bestowed unto you
As you do wish it to be!
Pray, taking me to be a pompous pink flamingo
Makes you another one among the blind
Imbibed with hatred for the image that I tend to show
That of a magic glass
Sparkling at all times
Ready to give the rest of the world
Those answers which they require
To saunter across their paths
With pride and self love!

What do you expect me to do then, whispered Love

Mend me, hold my hand and wipe away my fears of the world
Kiss me, fill my garden with flowers sweet enough to attract angels
Comfort me, be the strength that I have seen in faith
Love me, yes, love me even if I am a mere shattered glass!

Come then, raged Love
Come and lose yourself in my maze,
Tonight, the moon, so huge,
Will be my meaning’s witness!

Anoucheka Gangabissoon is a Primary School Educator in Mauritius. She writes poetry and short stories as hobby. She considers writing to be the meaning of her life as she has always been influenced by all the great writers and wishes to be, like them, immortalized in her words. Her works can be read on and she had also appeared in various literary magazines like SETU, Different Truths, Dissident Voice, In Between Hangovers Press, WISH Press, Tuck’s Magazine, Blue Mountain Review, among others. She has also been published in Duane’s Poetree and also in two anthologies for the Immagine and Poesia group. Her poems are often placed in free online contests. She has been selected to be among the Most Influential Women in Mauritius for the 2017 category Arts and Culture.

Curving by A.J. Kaufmann

hey, gatekeeper
keep the change
hey, pacemaker
curl the paste

cut a poem
into the mural
sign a petition with a slow soul

pace is same thing here,
so is belief

/side street journals
high heel click/

damn,& if religion guides you, may it shine
cause whatever guides you,
& dawns are happy mirages
of your girlfriend’s car

why crave your serious philosophy
it’s yesterday’s

its shine is of no use to
gleaming butterfly

& guides are rarities

these days

A.J. Kaufmann 2
A.J. Kaufmann is a modern Polish poet, songwriter and musician. He’s the author of “Siva in Rags” (Kendra Steiner Editions, 2008), “Broke Nuptial Minds” (Virgogray Press, 2009), “Hosannah Honeypots” (KSE, 2013), and other poetry chapbooks. He blogs at, and his music/audio site is He’s also the founding member of Säure Adler, and their most recent album is „The Aumega Sessions” (Aumega Project, 2018)äure-adler/. He is also a member of the Poznań, Poland underground collective KakofoNIKT, whose video can be viewed at These poems are from the upcoming „Viers Ze” chapbook (Huxley Invisible, 2018), which is an anti-war, love-song, camp sci-fi-based collection currently in the works.

The Bus Driver’s Son by Gareth Culshaw

I see him today behind the wheel.
Not so long back he was standing
with a tie and ‘V’ neck jumper
watching his father drive the bus.
His father had long black hair,
that looked farm worn. I always
remembered the dirt in the nails
like he had to fix his bus every
so often. Today his son sits
behind the wheel of time.
He has a quieter tongue and eyes
that don’t steal the sunlight.
He takes your money with a light
palm, his nails cleaner, hair
groomed. The bus glides along,
as it carts the human cattle.
I haven’t seen his father in awhile.
I wonder if he is there, in his son’s
shoes, telling his him when the earth
needs to brake.

Gareth Culshaw
Gareth lives in Wales. He has his first collection out in 2018 by futurecycle.

Poetry by Lynn Long

Whisper your love
Into the night
Tell me all
‘Til’ morning’s light

A broken heart
hides in vain
For it knows
To love again

Be my friend
and stay awhile
I’ll bring the
You bring the
In happy song
we’ll dance
and sing
In silly fun
We’ll share
our dreams

Lynn Long
Lynn Long- Poet, writer, aspiring novelist, daydreamer and believer in the impossible Contributing artist and Published in the following Ezines, publications and online journals Stanzaic Stylings Antarctica Journal PPP Ezine

Hate/Fuck/Riot by Paul Tristram

Well, the first word, upon the back of the door
is in excrement…
Yeah, I see the blood, but, it’s only traces
and the odd smear.
I’m thinking that’s just off his mangled fingers
and busted knuckles,
as he was brush-stroking his Masterpiece.

The second word, on the right-hand side,
as you stand facing the window,
is blood…
scooped up from that delightful little pool,
look here, you can see the drips and splash marks
all up the wall until he gets it face height.

The third word, upon the floor in the left corner,
is vomit…
Moulded together and shaped like putty or clay…
he’s mixed human hair into it,
before forming the 3D letters,
to give it substance and structure… clever.

It’s brilliant, I mean, he’s as mad as a bucket of frogs,
but, that’s deranged craftsmanship right there…
Is he still banging his head against the wall
over in the new place?
Time him… just out of curiosity,
on the last occasion he lasted four and half hours.
Yes, get another Psychiatrist in, it’ll do nothing,
they actually like him,
they’ll just end up talking about Art & Literature.
But, it’ll break things up until Court in the morning.

Paul Tristram is a Welsh writer who has poems, short stories, sketches and photography published in many publications around the world, he yearns to tattoo porcelain bridesmaids instead of digging empty graves for innocence at midnight; this too may pass, yet. Buy his books ‘Scribblings Of A Madman’ (Lit Fest Press) ‘Poetry From The Nearest Barstool’ at And a split poetry book ‘The Raven And The Vagabond Heart’ with Bethany W Pope at You can also read his poems and stories here!

“Visions of House Trailers and Hookers” by Alan Catlin

Double wide labs on isolated
backwoods lots,  eight miles
from nowhere and falling fast.
Home security by inbred pit bulls,
fight tested and fully blooded,
only the strong survive The Ring,
tattooed on the chests of biker
dudes with retorts and antihistamines.
Everyone heeds no smoking signs
except when totally stoned.  Mistakes
become fireballs that can be seen for
miles around but no one sounds an alarm,
no one responds, what would be the point?
Proceeds from chem lab work not stashed
in fire proof lock boxes are buried in the yard
for rail thin hooker babe to unearth later on,
when things, literally, cool off; not one
tear shed, not one moment of remorse
felt, for Hell’s Angel reject partners in
crime reduced to so much dust and ash,
all the west coast tattoo artist’s best work
on their bodies just another bad memory
like yesterday’s off-the-street john,
even their rides useless, not suitable for scrap,
transformed as they are into abstract sculptures,
Dali’s, in melted chrome, spontaneously mounted
on hard, black rubber mound, not that she
gave two shits; it was all about what was in
the boxes, just as it always had been.

Alan Catlin
Alan Catlin is the poetry editor of His latest books of poetry are American Odyssey from Future Cycle and Last Man Standing from Lummox Press

Salvation by David J. Thompson

I have a job
sorting lentils
at the local convent
of the Poor Clares.
Minimum wage.
No benefits.
Better chance
of salvation,
the Sisters say,
than promotion.

David J. Thompson 2
David J. Thompson is a former prep school teacher and coach who grew up in Hyde Park, New York. He is currently obsessed with the life and work of Patricia Highsmith. His poetry/photography book Grace Takes Me is due out in May from Vegetarian Alcoholic Press of Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Please visit his photo website at

Biblical Landscape Of The New Grand Canyon In Two Blueprints – Engine 1 by Nate Maxson

The maze fades out where the forest meets the river,
And the music fades in
Where the forest cuts to mud
They blew up the museum last night and seven gold sarcophagi landed face up in a Stonehenge pattern
Half open
Sarcophagus, the word is Greek
And is composed of two parts
Sarco, meaning flesh
And phagus
Meaning consumer
Much like anthropophagi, a word meaning cannibals: eater of men
Flesh eater
We who disappeared into this
Hear them out there, moving in the shrinking labyrinth: faced in gasmasks
I’ve seen them, impossible with machetes in the fog
Cutting down the trees from inside the very miracle
We huddle against the water
The edge/ the crucifixion truce
And one night a boat came floating past
With music coming from inside it
A second reminder, I was watching the caskets: waiting for them to open when it happened: for a night the chainsaws like crickets against the green went quiet
A piano on the water, moving on to some future
The Egyptian word for it was neb ankh, meaning possessor of life: this was a nocturne, a night song
For one night the music was exhalation, was enough
Dreamed war from an instrument of black wood turning a mask over the preserved occupying regent: nocturne
Night song, froze to cave notes scratched on rubber trees
Let this be our plural amen against steam, magic words to ward off the dead from the dying: not yet, nocturne, oh my night song they are cutting down the trees
Turn, night, sing:
Nocturne/ nocturne/ nocturne

Nate Maxson2
Nate Maxson is a writer and performance artist. The author of several collections of poetry, he lives in Albuquerque, New Mexico